To Serve the Dragonborn
by Morninglight
Summary: From Lucius and Caius Aurelius of the Dragonguard to Aurelia Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch, the Aurelii have served both Tamriel and the Dragonborn. They are not the heroes of legend. They are the ones who help forge new Ages and legends to come. Their enemies are many and varied... But if they can't save the world, then they'll burn it to take their enemies with them.


Note: This is what happens when I have to reinstall Skyrim and all mods, then get to thinking about backstory for the Aurelii. Most of the stuff in this story will have little to no bearing in Hunne but will have a purpose for Martin's story… Warning: lots of coarse language and my head-canon for why the Thalmor are total jerks.

…

Bruma, Latter Part of the Interregnum

Lucius Aurelius swore as a ravening horror from the depths of Oblivion leapt from the eastern wall of the Temple, tearing out the throat of a sworn brother. The Dragonguard, descended from Colovian women and Akaviri men, were beset by monsters summoned by the Daedra themselves and the fools of men from the Ebonheart Pact who thought them invaders. If the damned Nords and Dunmer _stopped_ for a moment, the Grand Master would be more than happy to set them straight on the matter. The Dragonguard battled the alien warriors under their snake-men commanders nearly as much as they did the fur-clad fools of the north.

"Commander!" bellowed one of the brothers as the warrior put down the beast with a single thrust to its oversized eye. "There's a Nord army to the north!"

"Really? I hadn't noticed!" retorted Lucius. "They're probably the source of these damned demons."

The brother, a slight lad with enormous green eyes that hinted at Bosmeri ancestry, stared at him. "…Commander, they're _fighting_ the demons too."

"…Oh." He looked to the central part of the Temple where the Heartguard was clustered around the doors to protect the women and children. Then he scanned his remaining warriors and finally the line of creatures between him and where the army the brother spoke of was. "Can we break through?"

The sworn brother, an ashigaru scout judging by his light reed armour, nodded thoughtfully. "I think so. I don't know the banner of the Nords' commander, but it's not Jorunn's Axe or the Ebonheart sigil."

Lucius swallowed a bit to moisten his mouth, noticing the demons had drawn back a bit. "Heartguard, stay put!" he bellowed in Akaviri. "I don't know if these Nords are our enemies, but I do know they're killing these damned things! I'll link up with them."

"Good luck, brother!" bellowed Caius, his brother-in-flesh. "Gods with you."

"And you!" Lucius then turned back to the enemy, feeling the banner-pole on his back sway lightly with the movement. Made of lacquered willow and hung with the banner of the Dragonguard, it was a relic from the days of the Potentates, a gift from Versidue-Shaie himself. It drew the attention of both friend and foe alike, but Lucius could no more imagine having it not attached to his breastplate than he could imagine being without an arm or a leg.

He pointed his katana at the demonic line before him in a clear signal to attack. Weary but determined to drive this enemy from their home, the warriors of Cloud Ruler Temple charged, shouting their ancient Akaviri battle cries. Lucius knew that most of them would die, either because the daedra would devour them or the Nords would finish them. But they would die and go to Heaven's Reach Temple. It would be a good end.

His katana, twelve-folded and thrice-quenched, clove through scaled flesh like hot steel through butter. He allowed himself to embrace the bloodlust of his Ra Gada mother; after Colovian ancestry, the warriors of Hammerfell were favoured mates for the Dragonguard as they had strength, discipline and stamina. The Nords were hardier but less disciplined, Bretons made for wonderful mages but poor warriors (if one's mother was a Breton, one was automatically assigned to the Loremasters) and mer were normally out of the question (but sometimes crept in, mostly Wood Elf). But no matter the maternal ancestry and therefore race of the Dragonguard, the slanted eyes of the Akaviri bred true. It was both blessing and bane of their existence.

He didn't stop running, borne on a tide of red raw adrenaline, until he passed a Nord wrapped in furs and ran headlong into another dressed in a magnificent scaled shirt of what could only be ice, though he didn't know how they'd made it into armour. Chuckling, the warrior caught him, eyes blazing blue and amused beneath a horned helmet of similar material to his shirt. "They're dead, Akaviri," he observed dryly. "Turn around and see."

Nords didn't favour backstabbing people, so Lucius obeyed and saw that the warrior, surely a leader amongst his people, was correct. The Daedra were being decimated by Nords and Dragonguard working together to finish the beasts. "Do you know who sent them?" he asked breathlessly.

"Breton fools from the Reach," the warrior responded sourly. "A few remnants from Sancre Tor."

"I wouldn't know. Cloud Ruler sees few people."

"So I gather." The Nord reached out towards the town of Bruma, holding it in his hand. "Bruma, the legendary home of the South Wind. I never expected to see it in my lifetime."

"Today is a first for lifetimes," Lucius observed dryly. "I never expected to fight alongside a Nord."

"I gathered that. Still, you are a wise man, one who understands pragmatism." The Nord offered a gauntleted hand. "I am Hjalti Early-Beard, but my men call me Talos Stormcrown."

Hjalti was a well-built man, not overly tall by Nord standards but half a foot bigger than Lucius, and his grip was firm. "An interesting sobriquet," Lucius noted as he shook the man's hand. Grey-shot blond braids framed a long face, his beard bushy but well-tended. A veritable dandy by Nord standards, this one.

Hjalti's ice-blue eyes flared for a moment, irises turning molten gold and pupils slitting for a moment. "I am Dragonborn," he said simply.

Lucius' response of "About fucking time" did _not_ go into the official Annals of the Dragonguard. However, his obeisance, the twenty-second bow not performed since the death of the last Cyrodiil Emperor, _did_. His men saw their commander bow and followed suit all the way to the Heartguard itself, feeling the relief of finally having a master to serve again.

Even Hjalti – no, Talos – looked surprised. "I, ah…"

"We are the Dragonguard, sworn to serve the Dragonborn," Lucius responded simply. "We have been ronin these past few centuries."

Talos' eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Lucius took a deep breath. "I can summon a Loremaster for you. They know the history better than me."

"I'll speak to one later. But explain what you mean by 'ronin'."

"Masterless warriors. Reman Cyrodiil's murder and the loss of the Amulet of Kings rendered us… useless. We served under the Potentates, but it isn't the same." Lucius took a deep breath, tasting the irony of having a master of a race the Colovians tended to think as fur-clad fools. "We are yours… and solely yours… to command."

"My own…" Talos took a deep breath, echoing Lucius, and nodded grimly. "I am sworn to a King named Culhecain."

"This King is mighty?" Lucius asked. He had to be god-touched indeed to command the loyalty of a Dragonborn!

"He's a means to an end. He sees me the same way." Talos held up a hand as a giant dremora came barrelling up the slope, shoving Akaviri and Nord aside. _"FUS RO DAH!"_

The Shout drove the monster back whence it came, snapping its mighty spine in two on impact with the unforgiving ground below. At its demise, the warriors cheered, and Lucius knew the Bretons had been defeated.

"Thank you, my lord," he breathed. "You have saved Cloud Ruler Temple. Do you wish to be presented to your servants?"

Talos took another deep, shuddering breath and nodded. "Yes."

…

Caius Aurelius handed his lord a bandage to bind the wound across his throat. His own blade dripped with blood, the broken body of Culhecain at his feet. Unlike his brother Lucius, he was a Breton, and the only one of the clan who saw combat as a Nightblade. Talos, unbowed despite his injuries, nodded gratefully. For Tamriel, for atonement, he had sacrificed his Voice… but gained an Empire.

The scarlet diamond of the Amulet of Kings glowed slightly beneath the neatly trimmed beard, having absorbed some of Talos' blood. The Colovians called him Tiber Septim, as they preferred to make things suit them, but to the Dragonguard (and the Nords) he would be Talos. Golden light swirled around Talos as he healed himself, the red gash of his throat turning into a thin pink line that bisected his larynx.

"I can still speak… Just don't ask me to Shout," he quipped in a rasp that was a parody of its former rumble.

"Why?" Lucius would run him through for questioning their lord, but Caius needed to know.

"Wulfharth," the Nord whispered. "He was so powerful a Tongue that he had to write his oath of kingship. But it made him powerful and arrogant. Eventually he became an avatar of Shor… and sometimes he still helps me as Ysmir."

"I don't understand…"

"You're not a Nord. I can either be a Tongue… or an Emperor. Tamriel needs an Emperor."

Caius bowed, not really understanding but acting like it. His was not to question why, his was to die and die.

And over the broken corpse of a betrayed King, the Third Age was born.

…

Cloud Ruler Temple, 3E 433

Jauffre never really understood. But then, he wasn't born a Blade, didn't have the Akaviri eyes, and was a fucking priest besides.

Northstar uncorked the bottle of moonshine she'd smuggled into the Temple and offered some to the desperately studying Martin. "Have some before you start talking Daedric," she suggested.

He set aside that damned book with the unpronounceable name and took a swig like a genuine professional drunk, not even coughing like that pansy Baurus had. Poor bastard, lost in the sewers beneath the Imperial City. Northstar should have gone on her own.

"You're not like most Aurelii women," he noted as he set aside the bottle.

"Most of my clanswomen are lovely creatures, made for the delights of the bedchamber and sliding daggers of silk between fat noblemen's ribs," Northstar observed with a grin. "Mummy was a Nord with a face like an Orc's and my father was some pansy Breton mage whose daddy was a Redguard."

Martin, bless his heart, chuckled richly. "That explains your aptitude for magic," he drawled sardonically.

"Hey, I got us through that barrier!"

"You smashed it with your fists and nearly killed yourself with backlash!" Martin shook his head. "I'm not complaining, Northstar. I'd rather have you around than one of your lovelier clanswomen."

"Don't let the _oirans_ know or they'll poison us both," Northstar pointed out. "The elders… ah… want you to visit them. So the Septim line can continue."

Martin made a disgusted face. "And make another bastard like myself? I think not. We'll see this through and then I can start thinking about a bride."

Northstar couldn't fault him. But still… "You could use a good fuck though."

"To get my mind off the _Mysterium Xarxes_?" he asked, naming that fucking book perfectly.

"Why do cults come up with such bullshit names?" Northstar asked of the air.

"Perhaps because 'Evil Book That Summons Oblivion Gates' might put some people off?" Martin quipped dryly.

"You're the ex-cultist mage. I'll take your word for it." Northstar rose to her feet, patting the smaller man on the shoulder. "I know you're not keen on fathering a bastard, but think it through. We're in a war and… yeah, the Septims are sort of the only thing between us and Oblivion."

"We'll see," Martin said with a sigh. "Just… give me some time to think."

…

Northstar banged on the brass dragon. "Bring him back!" she begged Akatosh. "Bring him fucking back, you fucking bastard!"

It took four Blades to drag her off and two battlemages to subdue her. Stupid fucking Ocanto and his cocksucking crowning rule bullshit!

She lived until she was eighty, dedicating every breath to fighting the Thalmor who were creeping into the other provinces as the stupid bastards went their own way. Her son, named for the only human she ever loved, kept up the fight as she transcended mortality to become a Daedric Prince. Arius, her grandson, was more useless than tits on a bull and his son Rustem was worse. Now and then Molag Bal sent a 'Hahaha' message as the Dominion expanded.

Then Cloud Ruler was invaded and there was no Talos to save them this time. The only good thing was that her great-great-granddaughter was loopy for a couple years after all that shit, allowing Northstar to slip in and out of her mind to leave certain bits of lore in her head. Then she gave her the blessedness of forgetfulness.

Irkand, her other great-grandson, belonged to Sithis and Northstar was fine with that since she had a timeshare agreement in Cicero. Lucius and Caius would have liked him, she sometimes thought. She wondered what they'd think of the third Martin.

_I hope he's who I think he is,_ she thought as Sheo, her literal other half, poured her a cup of tea. There was a lot of crazy shit going on – that crazy-ass bitch Irileth kicking the ass of some wannabe Dragonborn on Solstheim, her great-great-granddaughter bound and determined on being the first vampire to save the fucking world, that Nord fellow of hers trying to kill Alduin – and the world would be a fucking mess for years after. It would take someone special to fix that shit.

"I'm bored," Sheo whined. "I love you, my psychopathic Emperor-loving thug you, but I want to send people insane!"

"Love you too, Sheo," Northstar responded, pulling her attention from Nirn for a moment. "But just about everywhere is nuts at the moment."

"That's chaos, not insanity," Sheogorath complained, sounding like Cicero. Seriously, Northstar should introduce the two and let them fuck it out of their systems. "I want to start a plague of madness."

"Not in Cyrodiil, Skyrim or Morrowind," she told him. "They're suffering enough."

Sheo pouted but nodded. "Fine. But I want a plague in a very orderly place then."

Northstar paused, then grinned evilly. "How about the Summerset Isles?"

Sheo squealed like a little girl given a puppy. "Get Elisif to do it."

"…I think she's going to enjoy that." Northstar found herself purring like a whore. She liked Elisif; the girl was a whimsical little creature – not as sharp as some, but smarter than people gave her credit for – who'd instituted a weekly cheese tasting in Solitude so that everyone got a bit of decent food. Northstar made sure there was plenty of cheese to go around for the poor souls there.

_I'm crazy, not a bitch,_ she thought defensively. If only Martin hadn't died-

"I'll make it Elenwen," Sheo said decisively. "Molag Bal _likes_ her."

Northstar shuddered. Molag Bal was an evil bastard even by Daedric standards. "Been drinking with Boethiah again?"

"Mephala's getting too big for her britches," Sheo observed absently. "Azura and Boethie are getting sick of her."

"Oh, is Azura still riding that horse of 'let's make Irileth a Prince'?" Northstar asked in exasperation.

"She's gotten Boethie on board," Sheo reported. "You should know this, you know."

"Hey, you pay attention to Oblivion and I deal with Nirn. Split personality, remember?"

Sheo rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. Oh, Nocturnal wants to talk to you again."

"I've told her a hundred times she can't have Martin… unless he wants to serve her."

"If Brynjolf and Delvin get their way, he'll be the Emperor of Extortion, the Lord of Larceny, the Prince of Pickpockets-"

"If he decides to be Emperor, he'll need to be Talos fucking Reborn," Northstar interrupted with a sigh. "Look, this is too deep. Let's go fuck up some Thalmor."

Given that Nirn was far more interesting than the primordial chaos the elves wanted to return the world too, Sheo clapped with glee and got ready to cause mayhem.

…

Castle Bruma, 4E 202

Nurancar sighed as the Count's body slid off his blade. He should have finished the job of crushing this damned town two decades ago, but had been distracted by his wife's plans. Now, with a pliable Emperor on the throne, they could begin the job of exterminating the wretched Nords once and for all.

"My Lord?" His aide, a youth with a proud lineage but no experience, ran into the throne room.

"Yes?" Nurancar turned from the corpse at his feet.

"The Aurelii are… gone."

"Explain." Destroying the ancient Akaviri clan was a high priority on the Thalmor's list, especially with a Daedric Prince backing them and a harlot of their blood with her claws in the Dragonborn.

"Gone. We forced our way into the estate and they were… gone. Lucius' battle-banner, Caius' dagger, the humans themselves… Gone." The aide gulped. "The entire place was filled with… cheese."

Nurancar allowed himself a savage curse. The Madgoddess was meddling again. "Come here," he commanded. "I have something you can do-"

The bound mace which appeared in his hand snapped the youth's legs first, and then his arms. Then Nurancar _really_ got to work. He would need a lot of dremora to get those artefacts.


End file.
